


Father And Son... and the Son the other one doesn't know about.

by FroggieVirgo



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018), The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Achilles proves to be a hypocritical dad, Anyway my crack ship is Pyrrhus (TSOA) and Zagreus (Hades game), Not enough war crimes, Other, Sad Achilles (Hades Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29246613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FroggieVirgo/pseuds/FroggieVirgo
Summary: Achilles has dutifully spent the last few years becoming comfortable in his place in the underworld. While often is he recognized by those who come through the house , it has become an unspoken rule that he is not to be spoken to about his past. Particularly sensitive subjects include the war, Patroclus and his sons.It however, becomes incredibly difficult to not bring up the most hotheaded of his descendants when young Pyrrhus, recently slaughtered, finds himself in the House of Hades awaiting his placement into Elysium. While accusing the God of Sleep Hypnos of being a pointless stop on his journey to the evergreen fields of Elysium, Achilles rounds the corner to do his duty as a guard and stop an on coming fight.Instead, he stands face to face with a son he was never around for.
Relationships: Achilles & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 81





	Father And Son... and the Son the other one doesn't know about.

**Author's Note:**

> I finished The Song of Achilles and my dumb monkey brain looked at Pyrrhus and went "Ah yes, I hate him!"  
> I thought... the war crimes weren't mentioned enough in either Hades Game or TSOA. And I thought Troilus' death was kinda pathetic compared to how it is in greek mythology... and I know in mythology Achilles has two sons and I am a filthy roleplayer who writes Achilles in a discord server. So a lot of my take is based off of how I depict him there.
> 
> I just think Pyrrhus was fascinating though, and I can't see Achilles as like... understanding his son. I thought it would be interesting to have TSOA Pyrrhus interact with Hades-set Achilles... I don't think either of them would be proud of each other, or like each other honestly. Like they would want to. Achilles would want to be proud of his son, and Pyrrhus would want to be proud of his father.  
> But not every family has to get along. Achilles wasn't there. Thetis raised Pyrrhus into the son she wanted Achilles to be. And that alone is enough to make them be at odds with each other.

It is difficult not to be bitter in death. Difficult to not find anger in ones failures and faults that can no longer be made up for. Or anger in the failures one makes in death.

In life had the swift footed son of Peleus been feared. The bodies that lay at his feet from a spear he'd only know to be Varatha when it had been recovered to be offered to the Lord of the House's son. His tower of carnage unparalleled, his favor from the gods only rivaled by their distaste for the man who could bend the fates entirely because he loved too much. Generations later would his name still be whispered and left its utterers fearful that the shade had heard the ill in their tones and he would return out of spite to get them.

When in reality the years left him washed up, alone in the world with only his regrets and the actions he had refused to look back and learn from; only ignore. Young Zagreus looked up to him from the stories that lingered upon the lips of every shade that appeared within the House to voice their concerns. Dozens upon dozens of which had fallen at his own hands. Men and women who knew first hand his thirst for blood, insatiable wrath and lust for the violent. The legacy he had left behind being a bitter one, while honored by his companions in war who would not have won without it, it was through rose tinted glasses that they shared stories of their late friend.

In truth only bits and pieces of this legacy were remembered by Achilles. 

There is a certain pain that exists through the bodies of the grieving. The tightness of hands clenched at a spear, the warmth of tears that stream down cheeks, the soreness in a throat that wailed sorrows and screamed frustration until he could scream no longer. Heavy eyes, the ache in his very bones as everything that had ever mattered was taken away. As in his grief he left a graveyard.

He remembers blood stained flesh, both his own and others. Pleads to stop, cries and begging from those who had tried to surrender. But he did not heed their call. Heed their  _ warning _ . That past had been filled in for the most part by souls who had shown up at the feet of the master.

They told of _carnage_ , hundreds upon hundreds who fell to his hands, of demigods that fell to his spear in the wake of Hector. Memnon and Penthesilea, son of the dawn, and daughter of war.

“You stopped wearing armor entirely, yet still they stood no chance to you!” Said one shade, a veteran faceless to Achilles, but a Mycenean who survived the carnage, now eager to meet the man who made a fool of their commanding officer. “What do you  _ mean  _ you ‘don’t remember’?”

But the son of Peleus simply shakes his head gently. “I don’t recall much. I remember… despair but not the battlefield.”

_ (He remembers Patroclus’ body, bare and bloodied, wounds and blood-soaked skin being carried back by the kings. Staring at him in shock as he is placed at Achilles’ feet. Odysseus, Diomedes and Agamemnon…  Agamemnon.  They look at him, pity in most their eyes but hunger in Agamemnons. He preys on Achilles’ grief. “It was Hector. Hector killed Patroclus.” and with those words, he seals Achilles’ fate.    
  
“Tomorrow, Hector dies.” Achilles remembers those words rolling from his lips, kneeling beside Patroclus, knees hooked over his arm, supporting his shoulders with the other. He’s heavier now. He doesn’t smile, his eyes golden and warm do not gaze back, instead are closed. He wonders what he felt as he hides tears and sobs from his men. Wonders if there is fear printed on glazed eyes. He places blankets over him, it covers the wounds. He can pretend Patroclus is sleeping… that tomorrow He will come home, Hector’s body in tow and having sealed his own death, he may lay down beside his lovers body and the two may simply exist. They may simply rot. _

_ Two shades in one place… but death does not come no matter how often he refuses food and drink. No matter how poorly he tightens guards and greaves leaving delicate flesh ripe for the slaughter. No matter how frail his body grows, ribs and collarbones clear through an ill-fitting tunic. No matter how much the stench permeates the stale air of his tent from the tucked in corpse of his love and the haphazardly tossed one of the prince in the corner.  _

_ He remembers evenings in which the tears will not stop, when young Polyxena, rests her tormentors head on her lap in attempts to calm his temper to save her disgrace. She is only doing what it takes to survive at the hands of a feral, grieving man. And he knows her brothers father watches them, that she will call to him the moment she knows that the Prince of Pithia can indeed fall and is far less immortal than he claims. _

_ “My mother’s grip kept the styx from my left heel. A well placed slice and… and then I could join him. Then this torment can end. I can be with Patroclus….” Polyxena tangles his hair within her fingers as he drifts into restless sleep. He awakes to her moving, and from just outside the tent walls hears her mumbled prayers to her brothers father, the Lord Apollo, in a thick accent a decade at these shores have left him more than familiar with. _

_ “Please… for Troilus… With Achilles gone he may finally rest..” _

_ He remembers glancing where Patroclus should have been… a golden urn instead nested by blankets he could very much use in the falling winter.  _

_ All of this he remembers in such detail, but the moment he picks up spear and shield, he is made of grief. Embodied love and hate rolled into a young man set off for war at sixteen. It all becomes a blur then. _

_ An arrow strikes his heel, he feels the poison as it seeps through his veins, Hears the silence that shakes the battlefield as their greatest fall to a faceless archer atop the wall. They will claim it Paris… He looks to the sun that bares down through the sleet and ice. A smile plays at his lips as his body grows warm, the elbow of the arm that keeps him up gives out, and he falls into the blood soaked and snow-killed field. _

_ A death he prayed for, but while his body is brought back to camp, his last words heeded ashes mixed so he and his love are one, he can only grow angry. His mind races with ‘I didn’t do enough. I was taken too soon. My life should have been lived with Patroclus.’ ) _

“It was you who demanded Polyxena’s blood! And your madman of a son went through with it!” The soldier exclaims, Achilles returns the accusation with a cold hiss sharp as the blades he wielded in life. 

“You will say nothing of the like of my son. Neither of them will be spoken of here. Do I make myself understood?” Again in death does that anger burn as he looks down on the shade, terror on his face as he slinks away. The list of individuals who cannot be invoked in the house grows. His sons, under no circumstances, are to be brought up.

It became much more difficult to avoid speaking of the young men when the eldest’s time came. Onerios had passed long ago, slaughtered by the blood of Agamemnon. The two had not interacted… Hypnos had told him though.

Hypnos’ shrill tone echoes through the House of Hades in the continuous silence of Orpheus who’s vigil is gaining the impatience and disdain of the Lord Master. “Hello! Welcome to the House of Hades! And! Thanks for dy-” but he’s cut off by a surface-accent, not shrill like Hypnos, the voice of a man, dignified in every manner but equally pretentious. The sort of voice that belongs to a man with a punch-able face.

“My Father is in Elysium. Even in death will I live up to — surpass even — his name. I do not need a pointless pit-stop along the way.”

The flipping of papers as Hypnos looks for whoever this stranger could be. “Let’s see…. Let’s see. What’s your name? It could help with the sorting! Just so I know you’re headed in the right direction!” But the young man will not have it, he shouts something, but Achilles is already equipped with spear, walking with haste to the hall ready to deter an aggressive shade.

“You’ll excuse my eavesdropping, Master Hypnos, but there seems to be a proble-” But he is silenced when he looks upon the boy before him.

He cannot be older than Achilles. Maybe nineteen as a generous guess. He is shorter than him as well, only just barely. But his features are startling.

His face is soft but not innocent, stern as a grown mans, furrowed brows that fall along his face structure just like a woman he had known in life. He’s beard-less with a natural beauty as if he were made by the gods. A sharp nose and the pointed strong jaw Achilles saw from himself. A scar knicks his cheek just below his eyes. Green-blue eyes with sparkles of gold in them that go from glaring at Hypnos to glaring at the stranger.

They’re no strangers. He recognized the guard immediately.

“Father?”

Achilles studies the boy. He has long fire-red hair, the same subtle auburns from Deidamia… only this time it seems to glow like fire, it is bound back with a leather strap, two strands deliberately pulled forward to frame his face. At his shoulder is the symbol of Scyros that holds a purple cloak marking royalty that only exaggerates his strong silhouette. A knife at his belt, a white tunic dirt-ruddied and blood stained though the marks have been poorly cleaned. A golden cord cinching it at his waist, arm guards and greaves accent in a phoenix-bronze color. A soldier, a king even.

The boy looks at his father, awaiting a response. And Achilles wonders. In life he would nod to kings, never did he bow, not even to his own father. What was a father supposed to do for a son that outranked him? But the question is answered. He approached Achilles nervously but in a moment his arms were wrapped about his father, his cheek turned to rest at his chest. Achilles raises a hand to pat the top of his head in an uncomfortable return of the gesture.

"What… as in son of  _ the _ Achilles?" Hypnos' voice interrupts and father and son turn to look at him, curiosity in Achilles' eyes, but scorn in the others. The greeter flips a few pages back and forth before tapping the paper beneath. "Right here! Neoptolemus, A.K.A. Pyrrhus! Son of Achilles and… Deidamia? I thought you never had a wife!"

Achilles stares at him a moment and opens his mouth to retaliate.

"Master Hypnos, with all due respect you were the one who told me of my other sons passing into Asphodel." Hypnos nods, lets out a sign of realization and turns back to the clipboard. Pyrrhus never leaves his father's side.

"Right! Here uhh… Well would you look at that! Same cause of death too! Killed by Apollo! Wait no- correction, killed by a priest of Apollo. Nothing like some good old generational vengeance as my brother always says!"

Achilles knows neither of the brothers he knows would say such a thing. Mostly because neither talk all that much. But discrepancies aren't the concern. He rests a hand on Pyrrhus' shoulder and his son looks at him with matching eyes. There is regret in them.

"I'm sorry Father… we all knew it was Apollo who slew you. He sent his priests to take me when I denounced him. And… and they won. I failed you." 

Achilles lived with three parental figures. The once hero Peleus, stern and caring but lax when it came to his son. The teacher Chiron who had been as kind as he was strict with often overlap between the two. And distant Thetis. The goddess respected before all else. It was to her he would have looked at her like this. To her he would have pleaded his apologies, begged her forgiveness for the slightest shortcomings. He despised feeling like the parent she was. Even if in many ways he was even worse.

"No. You do not need to apologise to me, Pyrrhus. For anything. You were the best son you could be given the father you were born to."

Hypnos looks between them. A lazy smile on a tired face. "Wow… it must be great to have a dad at all, Achilles!" But something about the gods words upset Pyrrhus. He wrangles himself free from the gentle hand at his shoulder and points a strong finger to the God of sleep who jumps in response, holding his clipboard and quill close to his chest.

"You are to watch your tongue when addressing my Father, shade. He is Prince of Pithia, saved from fire, the greatest of all greeks, Aristos Achaion. You will address him as such and respect his achievements or it will be you who next bubbles from the pool of Styx's river!" Pyrrhus' voice is entirely aggressive. A hiss in his tone Achilles has not expected from the young man. His eyes are filled with anger, the same sort of anger he saw often from Thetis.

He wonders what made him so quick to want to defend his legacy. There is anxiety in his throat as he grabs Pyrrhus' wrist and drags him backwards ever so slightly.

"My sincerest apologies, Master Hypnos. My son is not quick to recognize who is and is not a god around here. Please… I will send him on his way and take it from here. Again, I apologize profusely for the words and actions of my son."

Pyrrhus' cheeks tinge red as his father drops the word 'god' but Hypnos is one of the more forgiving of the Pantheon, especially of the Chthonic. Had the words been spoken to any other, it was likely his place in Elysium would have been ripped from him right then and there. But Hypnos waves it off with a smile.   
  
“Oh don’t worry too much! I’ve heard worse! I get it though! Don’t expect a god to be hired as the greeter for the House of Hades. But I guess you also don’t expect the greatest greek who ever lived to be the house guard! Oops, anyway uh, have fun explaining that one I have a hallway to watch!”

And with that Hypnos is ignoring the pair, turning to the hallway to greet the next shade that bubbles out of the pit, barely holding onto consciousness as he does so. Pyrrhus looks again to his father, cheeks still red, glancing at his feet in embarrassment.

“I cannot believe this the first impression I made with you.” He mumbles to the ground, and Achilles for once laughs. 

“You are more than wrong with that, Pyrrhus. I have heard much about you from my Mother. Besides-” There is a sigh that follows his words as his shoulders fall, Achilles side-glances the ground before them. “My first and only request of you was the life of an innocent woman.” and Pyrrhus’ face lights up at that revelation.

“Polyxena! Yes her! I remember her well Father! And Helenos and Andromache! Please! Is there anywhere you and I may catch up? So I may ask why you are here and not within the fields?” There is an eagerness in his voice… a young boy trying to please his father. Trying to make him proud. It is the only thing any man of greece would want. For their father to look at them and feel pride.

Achilles can only feel dread.

“I.. yes, the Lounge. Please keep your head down though. I will have to let the Lord Master know I am taking an early break…” He mumbles to which Pyrrhus nods, hands folded behind his back, posture kept straight and kingly. He follows his father diligently as Achilles leads the way to the desk of the Lord Master Hades. Lady Nyx stands at the desks side communing with the giant lord, and her piercing gold eyes turn to the two.

“Is this one done harassing my son, Achilles?” She asks in her cold tone, Lord Hades doesn’t seem to appreciate the disruption in the hall mere moments earlier.

“Please Nyx, he’s just as every mortal son. Chasing after a legacy he cannot fill. Why are you bringing him to us, Shade.” There is a hiss in his tongue, not one Achilles fears but one Pyrrhus despises. He can practically feel the boy holding back his want to snap at such callous disrespect of his father. Even from gods far greater than either of them could dream to be.

“He is my son, Lord Master Hades. Unfortunately, in many aspects from the stories I hear, he is similar to your own. I am humbly asking that while the Prince Zagreus attends his duties in the administrative chamber, I am granted a short leave to catch up before Pyrrhus is on his way to his place in the underworld. It would only be taken if your permission was given of course.” His tone is light hearted, shooting a glance towards his son with a soft pleading look for him not to take the comment personally. Neoptolemus is like Zagreus from what he had heard. They are hotheaded, stubborn as their fathers. Skilled in battle, memorable. Any shade that is like the stallion-esque son of Hades is one the Lord Master is bound to dislike. Achilles can only reason that in that regard, the Lord Master must not like himself that much.   
  
And Lord Hades scoffs as he does, at the mention of his only son, mumbles something about his disappointments in his kin. “At least your boy has the desire to speak with you and the achievements to warrant his place.” and waves them off. Lady Nyx’s eyes follow them as she calls forward.

“Warn him however, Achilles, to treat those around him with respect.”    
“Of course, Lady Nyx.”

And the two are off, passing the desk and the sorrowful musician who greets Achilles, returning the greeting with a Nod.

Pyrrhus says nothing until they are beyond the walls, and when Achilles finds a suitably empty table and gestures his son to it, he can see the bewilderment that fills his eyes and how he tries to bite his tongue, but it all comes forward in a waterfall-voice when silence finds them.

“Lady Nyx? As in primordial night? And Lord Hades? The  _ king _ of the underworld? And both of them know you? What happened? Father?” He doesn’t allow him a moment to even breathe before the questions start flooding. Achilles taps fingers idly on the table attempting not to drift so far as questions keep coming, what he does here, who is ‘zagreus’, why he must ask permission to speak to family, why as a guest in these halls Pyrrhus is being treated so poorly. There are too many for the old shade to answer. But one drags him from this overwhelming flow of questions.

“Why aren’t you in Elysium?”   
  
Achilles freezes a moment and sighs. Shaking his head. Not often is the guard found wordless, or left to explain his actions. Mostly they are simply accepted. Achilles is here, Achilles serves the lord master Hades.

In death he is demoted to a prize. Dog of dogs. The greatest of men following the Lord Masters beck and call. A time ago he would have been furious, plotting his revenge to break into Elysium where he deserved to be. His pride can be stripped like a war prize can be stolen.   


But there is no war for him to simply sit out of this time. The only risk is Zagreus. Zagreus should never go through anything like he did.

“I… I made a lot of decisions that landed me here Pyrrhus. Please… just regale me in your own achievements. I’ll explain it to you after. I promise, it will not change where you will go. It’s my situation and… mine alone.” It’s Patroclus’ too. Patroclus is alone too and Achilles is the reason he is. There’s two answers to Patroclus’ fate. Either he lies memoryless among the ever-green, or he fights. He fights and prepares to strike down both Achilles and the fates for this life he was shoved into. Achilles is not prepared for either. But Pyrrhus does not take note of the distress in his fathers eyes. A smile pulls his lips wide, eyes gleaming as he nearly jumps in his seat.

“Of course, of course! Where should I start! Polyxena most likely-” And the boy begins to weave a story.

He tells of bloodshed, backtracking to hiding within a cramped wooden horse, tribute to Athena in more ways than one. Of breaking into the castle and in vivid tale paints the throne room of troy.    
Achilles remembers king Priam. An old greying man, with fifty children, some his own others to the god Apollo, all to his wife Hecuba. His head balding, beard thinning and age coddling him well. Remembers veiny hands that pleaded for his sons return, the politeness in his voice despite standing in the mouth of a beast, his very life threatened where he stood.

And Pyrrhus describes as his spear pierces the mans stomach, how he falls to the ground, how his remaining sons who haven’t fallen battle. 

Achilles remembers the coward Paris, his countless brothers and how a youth foolish as him was able to steal the hand of the beautiful Helen. How he was the weakest of his brothers, yet even then he was a warrior who tried… it was all Achilles could hope for.

And Pyrrhus regales him in the battle that left Priam’s remaining sons dead, including a small child. How Hector’s wife is shackled and dragged back to their camp. How while chasing the queen to add her to the harem built through bloodshed, she hurls herself off a cliff. And Pyrrhus smiles.

Achilles remembers Brisies. How soft she was, supple skin, deep brown in color and long black well cared-for hair. Remembers her warm eyes and the way she spoke Achaean words with such an awkward accent. Remembers tender hands cleaning armor and over the course of a decade how they grew close. He remembers her being dragged away by Agamemnon’s men, remembers hoping Agamemnon would defile her so he may have reason to slaughter him. He remembers her words at Patroclus’ funeral, his outrage at her that she would dare ever try to step between himself and his love. He remembers screaming and yelling until she was in tears. He remembers wishing he could apologize. She cared for Patroclus… She cared for him. And he her. A broken family made from war.

And Pyrrhus describes how his spear pierced her delicate back and her body was never recovered. How she defied him for refusing to bed him. A twelve year old at the time.

Achilles remembers the cruel face of Thetis. Ice-like in color and somehow colder in temper. He remembers her words to him. ‘He is dead. He weighs you down. Leave him. He will only make you worthless. He will ruin everything we have worked hard to achieve.’ Remembers loathing her as much as he loved her.

Pyrrhus speaks of being raised by her by the sea. Of nights spent at her side and how she would smile and sing in a salt-coarsed voice. How she would praise him and it was her who told him of Achilles’ feats.

“Some day, young Pyrrhus, you will be even greater than your father, my son Achilles. I can promise you this.”

How she fed him the very ambrosia she doused her own son in before lighting him aflame as a mere babe.

And Pyrrhus talks and talks, and with each word it chills Achilles’ bones more and more. He speaks of pillaging, ransacking and destruction. While Achilles’ youth had been spent hunting and healing and playing music. Pyrrhus speaks of brutalities Achilles could never think of. How his sword would rend flesh and how death came to him so easily.

He parades how proud he was of defying Apollo. How publicly he admonished the sun. Tells vividly of the kingdom he had taken, who’s people knew him as king. Of a son to Andromache at the age Achilles sired Neoptolemeus and his twin. The woman was twice his senior. And he speaks of all of this, of the blood at his hands, on their name, of the son left behind, with pride.

It scares Achilles.

“Apollo feared me too much to kill me himself. It means we won, Father. It means the gods feared us. It means we were the greatest men, and my son will be too! And his son and so on!” His voice is akin to roses. Elegant, royal, yet that beauty hides thorn. That dark crimson the color of blood that stains his legacy. Pyrrhus leans forward in his seat to better look at his father who is trying his hardest to feign delight.

But Pyrrhus frowns, then his brows furrow, then that anger that seems to run in their blood shows itself.

“You’re not happy with me.” And his voice is tinged with guilt. “I… I did everything according to Thetis, how can you be upset with me? I built on top of the monument of a legacy you left. I made it greater!” Pyrrhus pauses in his words, clears his throat to pretend he is not choking up. “Right?” and that pleading breaks Achilles’ heart.

He was no father to either of his sons. He was gone when they were infants. He spent their lives as an aid to their mother, but never once did he love their mother. They were the product of manipulation from Thetis.

‘Should she bear a child, I will tell Menoitiades where you are.’ She lied.. It was Peleus.

He loved his sons as a father should, wished them to grow up into strong young men. Wished for them to grow up into respected kings and princes and when this war was over and he could no longer hide he would play his part in that. But Odysseus found him, dragged him from his mutilated image of a family out to war. Where instead he would mutilate families. Take sons and fathers, capture mothers and daughters. All for the sake of fame and glory, when from the moment he had agreed, he knew he would die after Hector fell. When he picked up spear and shield he knew he would never see his sons or Deidamia again. 

“It’s not that, Pyrrhus-” He lies, clears his throat. “It is just a lot to take in, to hear of all of this from your own son… A life filled with brutalities. I was only in one war.” and Pyrrhus seems to accept that answer, he settles back into his seat, flaming hair tossed across his shoulder as he runs fingers through it. He’s crossed his legs, looks like a king expectant upon his throne for the praise he so deserves.

Achilles doesn’t think he deserves it. Momentarily he thinks Pyrrhus should have fallen to a hotheaded soldier of his own. That his Myrmidons… _Achilles’_ Myrmidons should have taken a page from their late commanders book and slaughtered a tyrant.

Pyrrhus nods, he takes a breath, seems to be able to calm himself somewhat. “Then… I’ve told you my story, Father. Why are you here?”

Never before has Achilles dreaded this conversation more. His hands fold on the table, he leans forward slightly. Looks to the table and bites the inside of his cheek. He was never left nervous in life, but this after life was like walking on glass. He was made of memories, and he chose to throw them aside so his other half could lose his.

“Do you know Patroclus?”

Pyrrhus nods. “Yes, I was told of him. Your ashes and his were mixed correct?” Achilles nods in response.

“It was my last request, that he and I could be one in death.” Pyrrhus thinks on these words for a moment. His eyes look to the side and he frowns, before an idea seems to strike him.

“I think I get it then! Your place in Elysium… You had a nobody buried with you-” Those words strike Achilles, his laced fingers tighten, his eyebrows raised in shock. He is speechless that someone would speak of his hearts half this way, but Pyrrhus is not deterred. “Lord Hades must have used that as blackmail then… That a great warrior disgraced himself with a no one… I thought leaving your tomb without his name could have stopped something like this. But your legacy…. Your place in the after life is ruined.. Isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry you did  _ what _ ?” Achilles pauses. He goes from shocked to furious, his fingers unlace. Instead his nails dig into his palms as he clenched his fists. Had he been mortal surely would blood have been drawn. Pyrrhus doesn’t notice this shift in body language. He twirls hair in his fingers, a single arm resting on the table as he seemingly looks past his father.

“I came to Troy after you passed. The kings were debating where to put your tomb, I was given authority as your heir. They told me of his ashes mixed with yours… but Father, that is your tomb. Sure he was the slayer of Sarpedon, but he used _your_ image and fame. Those feats should be attributed to _you_. He was a simple soldier who died and stole fame. No better even than Agamemnon for stripping you of pride. He will fade with everyone else who didn’t make their mark. It is _your_ monument. Not his.”

It is horrifying, to say the least, hearing these words come from Pyrrhus. In his youth had Patroclus’ image been the most important thing to him. When he’d taken the disgraced prince as his companion he made sure the whispers of the life on his hands ceased. He had made sure no one spoke ill of the boy dearest to him. If they were to respect Achilles, they were to respect Patroclus as well. And now someone idolizes him, yet spits on his beloved’s image like it is a smudge on glass. Rubbing it away with every bit of effort until his image is flawless.

Achilles stands. He slams hands down upon the table and the usual chatter of the lounge falls silent.

“He was the son of a king, as much a prince as you or I!” Achilles hisses. The shades look to him, then slowly turn back to their conversations, their heads lower this time. 

Pyrrhus cocks an eyebrow, sitting up legs uncrossing, posture straight. He takes this as a challenge. “He was disowned Father. He used your image, used your protection. He was a nobody, and look where his involvement landed you! Thetis was correct, he was just a stain-”   
  
“You will _not_ bring up my mothers name. You will _not_ call Patroclus a stain and you will _not_ speak to me as if you know better.” His voice is commanding. It is practiced. Oftentimes had he rallied men behind him, oftentimes had he made his point with words alone. A shade cannot die twice, but to call Patroclus less than he was, was to insult him more than the taking of Briseis had. It was to say his love was worthless, his life his fight, Hectors death, all of it was useless. 

It was to say his grief, the grief that plagued him every hour of every day was ill-put. That his sobbing to Polyxena was simply weakness rather than a shattered heart. It was to completely dishonor him as a man, as a soldier, a commander, the greatest of all greeks.

“Then what _do_ you know, Achilles.” He only challenges his father with this tone. Invoking name rather than title. It is an insult to injury. He believes his father a fool, and no son of a fool would admit to their kinship.

“I know that he was twice the man you ever were, that my Mother warped your perception to villanize him because she could not stand that my heart would land with another man. That I would have otherwise not had an heir.” His voice is still low. The conversation with the surrounding rabble has silenced, they listen to this confrontation between father and son intently. The best of their respective generations, taken by their pride. And it is a challenge now, between unstoppable force and immovable object. 

“If you would like the truth, Pyrrhus-” He continues, he wants to reach for his spear, prove to this heir that he is more than worthy of the legacy he claims Patroclus diminished. “He was a warrior, but not the kind that makes it to Elysium. I made sure he was provided for. I gave my place for him as he deserved it more than I ever should have. In turn I cannot go to Elysium, and I am the guard here. I train Lord Master Hades son, and I live with my choices.”   
  


“Why didn’t you just take the seat as champion of Elysium and use your power to have him be in Elysium with you?” Pyrrhus asks, there is a pout on his face, that of a spoiled prince being told ‘no’ for the first time. This likely is his first time hearing backlash of any sort, Achilles reasons, knowing his mother.

“You think after my end was dictated by war I would choose to conclude it fighting endlessly for my right to be remembered? That I enjoyed growing up around men three times my senior who aimed only for blood and carnage? That Patroclus would have forgiven me for the blood I left in his name? You know nothing Pyrrhus.” 

‘You don’t know that I let him die.’ the words are barely held back. He remembers how he looked in his own armor… How the greves and chestguard didn’t quite fit him the same. How he couldn’t stop placing kisses on Patroclus’ lips from behind his own helmet, the long flowing red crest of which looked completely wrong on him. How between every show of affection he would remind him ‘You can chase them but you must not fight’. How his men promised, and then failed to bring him back. How Automedon sobbed saying that his life should be taken as well, that he couldn’t get Patroclus back before he chose to be the hero, that he let them get too close to the wall and didn’t listen to his own better judgement. How Agamemnon preyed on that sorrow. Coaxed him again to fight, returning Briseis as some sort of additional consolation prize.

The guilt hangs on constantly even in death. Achilles could not protect Patroclus in life, but he could promise him the paradise they never would have been able to share.

He glares down at his son now. A son who wanted to look up to his father but instead chooses to insult him. Insult the only man who mattered. He looks back… and for a moment he looks like the kid he truly was. A youth of nineteen yet lifetimes of blood on his hands. His face is scrunched as if he wishes to sob. Like a bull, Achilles exhales sharply through his nose, briefly bares teeth like a wild animal and turns his back on his son. "Let's get you to the boatman." He mumbles to Pyrrhus, who gets up hesitantly and follows through a long and twisting hallway connected to the lounge that ends them at the gate bearing the likeness of the Lord Master.

Pyrrhus says nothing, skulking like a kicked dog. To be condemned by ones father is the biggest insult to a man in the world they grew up with. Sons strived to be like their fathers, greater even. To be scolded was to fail to live up to that image. Pyrrhus has every right to feel as he does, Achilles knows this. But in turn, Achilles has every right to despise this basterdization of the life he lived. Achilles puts forefinger and thumb to his mouth and whistles and distantly is the groaning of Charon heard. Achilles looks over his shoulder to his son, sullen and exhausted. He feels decades older than he is, life and death combined.

“Charon will bring you to Elysium. There you can make the name for your legacy that I failed to provide when I chose to love.” Pyrrhus nods, and while he is hurt, Achilles knows he is, he doesn’t show it.

The fire-haired young man simply clears his throat, straightens his posture and nods to his father, while infront of them the boatman dutifully stops and groans in acknowledgement. Some mix between bemusement and a begrudging acceptance of the task.

Pyrrhus steps forward, nods to the boatman while Achilles fetches an obal which is tossed to and subsequently caught by Charon. His oar is raised and dips into the blood-colored waters of Styx.

“One last thing Pyrrhus.” Achilles says, the boatman pauses, Pyrrhus turns to him expectantly.

“If you are to ever run into Patroclus, you will apologize for what you have said about him today. You will tell him I will never stop loving him, and you will not once look him in the eyes. He is a better man than I, or you for that matter, deserve. Know this, know this and feel pride in what I couldn’t. You’re exactly the son Thetis wanted.”

Achilles growls, he nods to the boatman and the oar moves the water beneath his skiff. Pyrrhus says nothing in response and the two part ways.

He enters the lounge, the chatter picked back up and as usual he is hardly acknowledged. His steps find him at his post and not long after the door to the administrative chamber opens and from it emerges fire-footed Zagreus who looks up at him with a bright smile.

“What a boring job… But my shift is over, say, Achilles sir, do you think I could steal you away for more lance practice? I’ve been going over our last sessions and I think I can really beat you this time!”   
  
If he notices how distraught Achilles is, he doesn’t mention it.

Achilles smiles. A soft, tired smile. “Of course, anything for you Lad.”


End file.
